


Woman From U.N.C.L.E.

by HalyardWench



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gaby is a Bad Ass, Gaby's POV, Illya likes to be pursued, Missing Scenes, Mission Fic, Roma | Rome, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalyardWench/pseuds/HalyardWench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Gaby’s story: Her evolution as a spy and her developing relationship with a certain Russian. The film (primarily) through her POV. Missing moments and Tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birth of a Spy

**Author's Note:**

> This disclaimer is bland and snark free- but should cover my ass.  
> Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I give due props in no particular order to :Guy Ritchie, Lionel Wigram, Sam Rolfe, MGM and Warner Bros. as the writers/creators/owners. It is not in any way, shape or form mine. I’ve simply borrowed the characters, and I promise to put them back where I got them, happy and relaxed. In that vein, if it's dialogue in **BOLD** it's from the movie. Credit where credit is due.
> 
> Additionally, the movie seems to support Waverly as BNI or MI6. Just throwing that out there. 
> 
> One final note, Illya makes an appearance in the first chapter, but after that is front and center with Gaby for the duration.
> 
> Happy Reading!  
> ~HalyardWench

East Berlin,  
September 13, 1961  
Early Afternoon

Gabriela Teller is a stunningly pretty young woman. With dark hair, light olive skin and luminous brown eyes: she is just the sort of woman Waverly would’ve tried to romance in his younger days. Even smeared with grease and smelling of motor oil, he’s certain that she has more than a few admirers-himself included. Currently he’s admiring her prodigious skill as a driver. She’s piloting an ancient tow truck bearing his crumpled Citroen through the narrow streets of East Berlin with unparalleled finesse.  
They bump along over the cobblestones as the wipers snicker back and forth, smearing the rain in great streaks across the windscreen. The world passing them by outside seems even drearier than it had been that morning.  
“You rear ended a tank?” she asks, unable to keep the rising note of incredulity out of her voice.  
Waverly rubs his neck. “Yes. Rather unfortunate. Raining, you know.”  
She shifts into third, nearly standing straight up as she mashes the clutch into the floor. “You’re lucky all you’ve got is a stiff neck.”  
“I am indeed, Miss Teller.”  
She doesn’t even blink. Her tone is light and casual. “I think you’ve got the wrong woman. My name is Schmidt.”  
“I don’t think I do, Miss Teller. My name is Waverly. I’m MI6.”  
She gives a little laugh, low in her throat.  
“I take it you are not surprised?”  
“Your accent and your suit give you away,” she says in English,  
“Aren’t you the least bit worried I could be a double agent?”  
“It’s East Germany, Mr. Waverly. How do you know that I won’t inform on you?” She cranks the wheel left, hanging her weight off it as she does. “What is it that you want?”  
“You’ve heard of the A-bomb, Miss Teller?”  
She shoots him a look that says do you think I’m an idiot? “I live in East Berlin, Mr. Waverly. Not under a rock.”  
“Then you know that it is the greatest threat of our time-a threat which your father, Udo Teller, helped create.”  
She swallows and nods.  
“After the war your father was relocated to the United States. There, he continued his work on the A-bomb. That is, until he disappeared early last month. We don’t know where to, but we have reliable intelligence that says his Nazi compatriots will come looking for him. We cannot allow them to find him.”  
She brakes abruptly, snapping him against the seatbelt. They sit at a rough idle as a mother chases a small child out of the street. “I don’t know what I can do for you. I haven’t seen him in years.”  
“No, you haven’t, have you? Not since January of ’45, when he left you and your mother to the tender mercies of the Russians.”  
She grunts and shifts into first and they creep forward, slowly picking up steam.  
“It is imperative that we find your father, Miss Teller. The knowledge in his head-well: let’s just say it’s enough to wreak such destruction on the world that the ‘40s will look like a Sunday picnic.”  
“And what is it exactly that you want me to do?”  
“When the Nazis come looking for you as they are sure to do, play along with them. We’ll use them to find your father.”  
“You mean use me, more like it,” she says coolly.  
“To be honest, yes.” Waverly lays his briefcase across his lap and releases the clasps. He reaches in and extracts a plain white business card. “Once they make contact, call me as soon as you can. This number goes to my secretary. She can reach me anywhere in the world. I suggest you memorize it, and then destroy it.”  
She hesitates for a moment then accepts it, unzipping her jumpsuit to tuck it neatly into her bra.  
They drive on in silence. When they near the garage they slow to a crawl, and finally a squealing halt outside an open bay where a blonde troglodyte is bent over a Trabant.  
She lifts a finger off the wheel and points at him. “That’s Georg. His favorite hobbies are leering at my backside and informing on people that he doesn’t like,”  
“Good to know,” Waverly says.  
“How long?” she asks, turning to him.  
“Days. Weeks. Maybe Years. We really don’t know when they might make contact.  
She smiles, as if he is highly amusing. “No. How long should I take to repair your car?  
“Ah. Let’s say three weeks, and I’ll be back in one to check on the progress.” He has one foot out the door when he turns to her. “Happy Birthday by the way.”  
MFU  
Gaby watches Waverly as he walks off down the street towards the cabstand, all the while fighting the urge to trace the outlines of the card tucked securely into her bra.  
“You okay?” Georg is staring at her. “You look worried.”  
“I’m fine. Had a near miss with the tow truck and I’m still a little shaky. We need to work on the steering and clutch.”  
“We’ve needed to work on it for years.”  
He helps her get Waverly’s car positioned on the jacks in her bay. She smiles and gives him a squeeze on the shoulder. Because all things considered, she thinks it’s a good idea keep him close. He goes red, and shuffles back to the Trabant.  
She props the hood up on the Citroen and sinks into her work, lost in thought. It was strange (and more than a bit unpalatable) to think of the Nazis as her way out from behind the wall. What would they do to her when they made contact? Would they torture her first? Use her as a hostage? Both are distinct possibility she thinks. Hopefully, they will try to sell her on a reunion with Udo (She has long ago stopped thinking of him as father).  
She leans over to inspect the radiator and it falls out with a resounding clang! on to the concrete floor. Georg is suddenly by her side, wiping his hands on a rag. “Want to go dancing tonight?”  
“Yes.”  
He brightens. “It’s a date.”  
_With disaster_ she thinks. 

Late Night, June 26, 1963 

Gaby stands in the back of the truck, watching East Berlin fade into the background as they drive away. The sky above the wall is lit up with searchlights and she can hear the Russian shouting orders from the minefield. She hopes he makes it out okay. She’s seen enough violence in her life to not wish it on anyone, even if that someone had only moments before been trying to do her in.  
When the wall has faded from view, she sits with Solo on the bench seat. He produces a blanket and wraps her snugly in it. She lays her head on his shoulder and he wraps an arm around her waist. They ride in silence, listening to the flap of the canvas walls and the drone of the engine as the truck rumbles and snorts through the dark streets. Soon, they come to a gentle halt.  
Solo smiles. His teeth are dazzling in the darkness. “We’re here.”  
Gaby waves off his proffered arm and jumps down easily from the truck bed and looks around. They are on a dark residential street. The air is cool and wet. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.  
“Welcome to the West, Miss Teller.”  
She lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Thank you.”  
He places a hand at the small of her back and guides her towards what appears to be a darkened apartment house. “Now, if you’ll just follow me.”  
“This is a hotel?”  
“Well…no. Safe house actually. But the food and service are excellent and there’s plenty of hot water and clean towels. I’ve even taken the liberty of procuring you some pajamas and a toothbrush.”  
_They’d better not be sexy pajamas_ she thinks. _Although if being friendly with you means safe passage out of Germany, I’m prepared to make that sacrifice. They’ve got good antibiotics now I hear._  
They enter the slumbering building and climb the shadowy stairs to the fourth floor. Solo keys open the door and steps aside, waving her in ahead of him.  
The apartment is exceedingly banal and not at all chic. It smells of stale smoke and coffee left on the burner.  
Solo sets his briefcase down on a side table. “The water closet is down the hall to the left if you’d like to wash up. I’ll make us something to eat.”  
MFU  
She finds Solo in the kitchen. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and he wears an apron. “Here,” he says, handing her a glass of wine.  
She takes it and sinks wearily into a plastic chair against the wall. “I wonder how long it will take them to get our Russian friend out of the mine field?”  
Solo looks up from his cutting board and grins. “Hours.”  
“It’s a wonder he didn’t blow up.”  
“He’s probably going to wish he had, once they get him out and he has to explain why he lost you.”  
This thought makes her stomach cramp.  
Solo uses the knife to push chopped mushrooms from the cutting board into the pan. “Tell me about your uncle.”  
“Uncle Rudi? He’s my mother’s oldest brother. He’s from Munich. He used to come visit once a month. Always brought chocolate. I haven’t seen him since I was eighteen. He works in Italy for a shipping company. Vinceguerra, I believe. He sends me a card every year on my birthday.” She swirls the dregs of her wine. **”What’s that? It smells like feet.”**  
MFU  
She’s halfway through her dinner when Solo pushes through the kitchen door. His face is impassive.  
“That was your boss?”  
He nods.  
She forks another bite of his rice dish into her mouth and washes it down with the rest of her wine. “Charming man. We should introduce him to our Russian friend.”  
“I take it you like the risotto?”  
She shrugs. “I’m hungry.” She reaches for the wine bottle only to discover it is empty. “Be honest. You make this dish for women and expect them to soak through their panties.”  
His smile could melt ice. “Is it working?”  
“Not even a little.” She sets her fork down and pushes back from the table. “I’m going to bed.”  
“Second door on the right,” he says.  
She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Wake me before you leave.”  
MFU  
Her room is just big enough for a narrow bed that sags in the middle, and a chipped nightstand. A pair of blue cotton pajamas is folded on her pillow. She shivers as she strips: the ebb of adrenaline and excess of wine have left her feeling cold and boneless. She slips under a mountain of blankets, trying to mentally rehearse her call to Waverly in the morning; but she can’t. All she can think of is the young Russian, and his face as he dropped from view behind the wall.


	2. From Berlin, with love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya meet (You know, that scene) and get to know each other. Unresolved sexual tension abounds, and Gaby struggles with the knowledge that she will eventually have to betray Illya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, if it's in **BOLD** it's dialogue from the movie. I've tried just to leave in the most salient parts of the dialogue.  
>  Happy Reading!  
> ~HalyardWench

****

****

June 27, 1963

****  
**West Berlin**   
**Early Morning**   


The little café on the corner is a beehive of activity on a rainy Thursday morning. Gaby surveys the crowd warily. Businessmen in impeccable suits scarf down buttered rolls and modish young women tip back cups of coffee. Her stomach flips. _Any one of them could be secret police, just waiting to drag me back behind the wall,_ she thinks. _Then I’ll find out the hard way what the Russian wanted._  
She locates a payphone in the far corner and dials the number she’s committed to memory nearly two years ago. There’s a hiss of static and then, “Waverly Printing, Rose speaking.”  
Her voice portends a calm that she does not feel. “Rose. This is Auntie. Please tell Mr. Waverly I’ve been locked out.”  
“Thank you, Miss Teller. Mr. Waverly says you are to proceed as planned. Oh, and Miss Teller? He would like me to pass on that he has every confidence in you.”  
That makes one of us.  
**MFU**  
**Mid Morning**  
**Same Day**  
Gaby twists uncomfortably in the navy blue suit that Solo is insisting she needs. She scowls at her reflection in the large, freestanding mirror. “I look like my grandmother’s sofa.”  
“Perish the thought.” Solo takes a sip of champagne and leans back into the overstuffed armchair. “You’re perfect.”  
“You can’t smooth talk me,” she says. She settles a pair of oversized white sunglasses onto her nose and studies her reflection. “Now these-  
Solo is on his feet in a flash. “You’re from behind the iron curtain Gaby,” he says, deftly removing the sunglasses from the bridge of her nose. “Iron curtain and High Fashion are two terms you’ll never hear together. Which is why we’re getting these.”  
He hands her the gaudiest gold necklace and matching earrings she’s ever seen.  
“Lovely,” she says, clipping the earrings to her earlobes. “I’ve always wanted to be able to deflect bullets with my jewelry.”  
Solo stands behind her to fasten the clasp on her necklace. “Speaking of the deflecting bullets,” he says. “There’s been a last minute change to the plans. America is teaming up with the Russians.”  
“You’re joking,” she chokes.  
“Sadly, no.”  
Her stomach sinks into her feet. _If Russia’s involved they’ll try to send me back for sure. I can’t let that happen._  
**MFU**  
“My woman would never wear this.”  
She turns to find that the young Russian who’d pursued them so doggedly only the night before is now peering at her with uncanny intensity.  
”What’s he doing here?”  
“Told you. Teaming up with the Russians.” Solo tips his champagne glass at the Russian. “Doesn’t get any more Russian than the Red Peril here.”  
The Russian is uncomfortably in her space; appraising her with piercing blue eyes as if he can see right through her. “And why did he call me his woman?”  
“Because I am now your fiancé.”  
“No. No. No. No. No. _No_.” No way in hell.  
Flinging the horrid jewelry aside, she pushes through the heavy doors and out into the sidewalk. Solo is hot on her heels. Hands on her hips: Gaby casts a glance across the street and wonders if she can outrun both Solo and the Russian on foot. She sighs. _Highly unlikely. In fact, I’ve got about a snowball’s chance in hell of outrunning either of them-especially the Russian._  
Solo seems to sense her thoughts. He’s got a hand on her shoulder. “It could be worse; you could be engaged to a Nazi instead of the Red Peril.”  
“He calls me his woman.”  
“I think our friend Peril has got a limited command of the English language,” Solo says. He smiles smugly. “And he needs to learn a thing or three about women.”  
Gaby glares at him, and marches back inside to find that the Russian has assembled a rack of clothing for his woman. She snatches a dress from the end of the rack and strides off to the dressing room. She wiggles out of the navy blue abomination of Solo’s choosing and lets it puddle on the floor. She shimmies into a short white-and-coral dress and appraises herself in the mirror.  
It’s perfect.  
She doesn’t like to admit it, but for a man whose talents include ripping the backs off of cars and surviving minefields, the Russian has surprisingly good taste.  
**MFU**  
She’s spent the better part of the morning trying on outfits for the Russian’s approval. She’s got a pile consisting of half a dozen dresses, purses, two coats, two hats, a belt, and several pairs of the most stylish earrings she’s ever owned all stacked neatly by the register.  
He hands her a pair of sunglasses-the white ones. “Rome is very bright,” he says.  
She can’t help it- she smiles at him and then puts them on. He nods his approval. “Now, let me see.”  
Once again, she turns in a slow circle for him as his hands trace over the contours of her body. They feel all warm and capable on her lower back and her insides flutter in an alarming way. She’s always been a sucker for skillful hands.  
Damn it.  
“Are we done here?” she asks crossly.  
“Not yet.” The Russian turns to the sales clerk. “Can you show me… negligee?”  
The two clerks flash each other smug smiles. One leads them to small room in the back and she’s instantly uneasy. The Russian however, seems pleased.  
On either side of a tall mirror, long low racks hold scads of filmy, barely-there negligees. There are two squashy chintz covered armchairs and a dressing room cordoned off with a curtain. Can-Can dancers flouncing their frilly skirts and kicking up their legs would be right at home here.  
“Dearest,” she says, in a tone that implies that he is anything but, “I don’t need one.”  
“You do,” he says, stepping close to her and leaning down. “You are a woman who is lucky enough to accompany her fiancé to Rome. Such a woman would have something…special… in her possession.”  
“Not this woman.”  
“If you do not pick, I will pick for you.”  
“Fine then, you pick.”  
She almost misses it. The faintest flash of pink in his cheeks. Is it possible the Red Peril is nervous? If so, he’s hiding it well. He moves about the racks, holding up nightgown after nightgown up for inspection before settling on a short black nightdress of tissue like transparency. “This will do nicely.”  
“Fine.” She snatches it from him and loops a strap over each index finger. She holds it up to her chest and gives him the sultriest smile she can muster. “Should I try it on so you can run your hands all over me?”  
His eyes go wide for a moment and then he turns his head away. “I think we are done here, yes?”  
**Late Afternoon**  
The cavernous train station echoes with commotion. All around her people are in a rush. Men with briefcases stride briskly about and porters struggle to push overladen luggage carts. Harried mothers hold wiggling children firmly by the hand. An elderly couple shuffles along arm in arm. At the far end of the platform, a young woman who looks like Bild Lilli is engaged in a vertical display of desire with her boyfriend. Above them all, a giant board clicks through city names and departure times.  
Gaby walks on the Russian’s arm, taking every thing in. “Is this us?” she asks, pointing at a sleek silver train emblazoned _Citta di Roma._  
“Yes.”  
As they board, the Russian hands the conductor their tickets. He’s a short, stocky man who moves stiffly and the left side of his face has been badly burned. His eyes narrow and his lips purse as he addresses her ‘fiance.’  
“You are Russian?”  
“Yes.”  
The conductor turns to Gaby. “And German?”  
She nods.  
Next to her, she can feel the Russian tense as if his whole body is suddenly humming with pent up electricity. “Is there a problem?” he asks.  
“None,” says the conductor tersely.  
Gaby slides her arm around the Russian’s waist and leans into him, urging him away down the narrow hall.  
“I think this is us,” she says, pointing at a sign that reads 3B.  
The metal doors slide open with a click to reveal a little private sleeper car that’s just barely big enough for the two of them. On one side there’s a plush red banquette that pulls out into a bed, and on the other a mirror flush against the wall.  
The Russian slides both of their suitcases into the overhead. He’s still vibrating. Gaby sits down on the banquette and pats the space next to her. He sits.  
“Calm down,” she says softly. “You can’t blame him. You don’t know what he’s seen.”  
“I do not like the way he looks at you. Like you are a-a-  
“You do know we’re not really engaged?” she cuts in.  
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.  
“Speaking of engaged,” she says, scooting towards him in attempt to put him off guard. “Seeing as how we’re about to get married, mind telling me your name?”  
“Illya Kuryakin.”  
She tips her head up to meet his gaze. “Well Illya, why did you try to kill me?”  
He bristles. “Not you. Cowboy.”  
“I know that-I heard you shouting at the police. But what, exactly, did you think would happen to me when you caught me? So, like I said, trying to kill me.”  
“You I would not hurt,” he says solemnly.  
“And I believe you,” she says, “It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”  
Soon, they are pulling out of the station. She looks out the window and sees a dizzying array of steel tracks and wires and train cars, all bathed in the golden light of summer afternoon. Once they are out of the city the train picks up speed and the countryside passes in a blur of green.  
“Your first time on train?” he asks.  
“On a long trip, yes,” she says. “I haven’t left Berlin since before the war.” He frowns at this. For a minute they are both lost in thought of truncated childhoods long since gone.  
She breaks the spell first. “When do we get to Italy?”  
“Tomorrow afternoon,” he says.  
“I should tell you,” she says, plucking an imaginary thread from his jacket. “Uncle Rudi-he always seems to be able to tell when a person is lying. To be honest with you, he’s not my favorite person. I don’t know why. Just a feeling I suppose.”  
He nods. “We will work on our story. The best lie is simple and mostly truth.”  
_Oh Illya,_ she thinks, _if you only knew._  
**MFU**  
The dining car is all crisp white linen and subtle lighting. Gaby twists her engagement ring around and around on her finger. It’s a narrow band set with a square yellow stone and it catches the light, throwing little glittering diamond shaped squares onto the table cloth. Illya smiles shyly at her; his eyes are bright sky blue. She’s always been a sucker for blue eyes too.  
He orders for them both. They eat in companionable silence, watching out the window as they pass through open farmland. The sun is setting and the meadows glow in the evening light.  
The waitress arrives to clear their plates. “Just engaged?”  
“Today,” Gaby says.  
“When are you getting married?”  
“July,” she says reflexively.  
The waitress smiles knowingly. “I had to get married in a rush too.”  
Later, the waitress brings them a slice of chocolate cake and pours coffee.  
Gaby takes a bite and then pushes the plate between them. “Want to share?”  
“’No. Thank you. Is all yours.”  
“It’s good,” she says, holding out a bite to him.  
She sees it again, an almost imperceptible flush on his otherwise impassive face. “Dearest?” she says sweetly, “People are watching.”  
He leans forward takes a bite off her fork.  
“Good, huh?”  
He nods.  
She grins, and gives the fork a quick lick. Illya averts his eyes and stares out the window.  
Putting him off guard is _fun._  
**MFU**  
“For the last time Illya, you don’t need to follow me to the ladies’ room. What do you think I’m going to do, jump off the train? I’m only getting changed.” Gaby is pulling pajamas out of her suitcase and he’s peering so intently at her she feels like he’s burning a hole in her back.  
“I do not like the way that man in the dining car was looking at you.”  
“He’s not a Nazi bent on world domination, Illya. He’s just a random creep hoping that I’m easy and that you’ll be looking the other way. Believe me, I know how to handle him.”  
“I am not familiar with this term, _easy.”_  
She thinks for a minute. “Am I correct in imagining that Cowboy has a file and that you’ve read it? Yes? Now, is there some mention of the type of women he likes?”  
He narrows his eyes. “Da.”  
“Those women are easy, I can almost guarantee it. And before you ask me,” she says, noting the expression on his face, “The answer is no. We haven’t. He never asked. He would have, had I given him any indication that I wanted him to, but I didn’t. Because like I said, I know how to handle it.”  
“Good.” Illya looks smugly satisfied and for one shining moment she thinks she’s won the argument, until he says: “But you still are not going alone.”  
“Fine,” she huffs, closing her suitcase to allow him to place it back on the rack. “I’ll change here. Now unzip me: then turn around.”  
She turns her back to him, holding her hair to the side to allow him access to her neck. “Cowboy is right. You don’t know much about women.”  
“Cowboy is wrong,” he says as he slowly tugs her zipper down. “I know about women.” His voice is low, and his breath is warm on her neck. She feels her knees go weak.  
He large hands encircle her waist. “You’re shaking.”  
“Because your hands are like ice,” she lies.  
**MFU**  
Gaby’s spread out like a slack-limbed starfish face down on the edge of the sleeper sofa. Illya sleeps on the floor on a blanket, fully clothed. The train rocks hypnotically as they plow through the darkness.  
“Want this?” she asks, dangling the pillow over him.  
“No. Thank-ugh,” he splutters, and she knows the pillow has made contact with his face.  
“Illya?”  
“Yes?”  
“When we get there tomorrow-  
“I will take care of you, little one,” he says gently.  
“Illya?”  
“Yes?” he answers sleepily.  
She reaches down and gives him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t blow up.”  
She can hear him smiling in the darkness and his fingers find the back of her hand.  
“As am I.”  
Suddenly, her stomach roils and she knows betraying him isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to hurt like hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You so much for reading, and if you left a review that would be smashing. Let me know what you like (or don't for that matter-I'm a big girl) just please be polite.


	3. Spies on the Spanish Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya arrive in Rome. Things do not go as planned.

**June 28, 1963**  
**Early Morning**  
**Aboard Citta di Roma**  
“Gabriela.” Illya has one large hand between her shoulder blades and is gently shaking her awake. “Gabriela.”  
“Go t’sleep Illya, s’too early,” she mumbles into her pillow.  
_“Gabriela.”_  
_“Illya!”_ She sits up, blinking blearily.  
“Look,” he says softly, pointing out the window.  
In the pearly pink light of early dawn she can see rows upon rows of lavender stretching into the distant hills. Here and there, women bend over the deep purple blooms with their sickles, and stack sheaves of lavender onto horse drawn carts. Tiny stone cottages and outbuildings dot the landscape.  
She gives a little sigh. “It’s beautiful.”  
The corners of his mouth turn up in a slow smile. “I thought you would like it. It is not done much this way any more. Now they have machines but in some places, the women still do.”  
“How is it you know all this?” she asks, stifling a yawn.  
“I like to read,” he says matter of factly. “Now go back to sleep.”  
“No. I don’t want to miss this.”  
“Then I get you coffee.”  
She’s wrapped up in her blanket, gazing out at the lavender fields when he returns bearing two white mugs. He hands her one and slides onto the banquette next to her.  
She curls her hands around the mug and scoots backwards until she can feel the heat radiating from his body. “It’s Gaby, by the way. My parents called me Gabriela and then only when I was in trouble.”  
“Gaby.”  
He says her name like he’s tasting it. Her hands clench around her mug and a flash of heat swirls low in her belly.  
Damn him.  
**Late Afternoon**  
**Rome**  
The cabbie is rail thin with a head like a wizened apple and he loads their suitcases into the FIAT with surprising vigor. Illya squeezes in next to her and in the blink of an eye they are off: hurdling through the ancient streets at breakneck pace. Rome passes in a whirl of honeyed light. The backs of her legs are sweaty against the vinyl seat and Illya’s knees are nearly in his mouth.  
The driver leans on the horn as they squeak between a bread truck belching smoke and red Ferrari. They make a jarring swerve left and come to a squealing halt; just missing knocking a family of four off of a Vespa.  
Gaby leans forward and taps the cabbie on the shoulder. “When was the last time you had your brakes done? When Patton was rolling over France?”  
He flashes her a toothless smile in the rearview and nods. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Illya, lips tightly pressed together, trying not to laugh.  
It just might be the most fun she’s ever had in the back seat of a car.  
**MFU**  
**The Plaza Hotel, Rome.**  
Illya is a monolith in the archway of their bedroom. Gaby brushes against him as she slides past and his whole body goes rigid. He narrows his blue eyes at her and she grins wickedly at him.  
“I see we’re waiting until we’re married?” she says, indicating the two twin beds. “I usually sleep on the right. You?”  
Discomfort flashes across Illya’s otherwise impassive face. He thinks carefully for a minute then says, “I sleep where I can.”  
“That’s just sad, Illya.” She toes off her shoes and flops backwards onto the bed. “When was the last time you were with someone?”  
He watches her with a pained look.  
“That long, eh?  
He makes a sound like air escaping from a tire. “And you?”  
“And here I thought the KGB would have told you everything there is to know about me. Or do you just want to hear me say it? They come, they go, they don’t stay.”  
“And…why is this?”  
“Usually because I’m too ‘forceful’ and he’s too much of a short pussy.”  
This time, he can’t hide his smile.  
She stretches her arms up to the headboard and sighs deeply. “Think you fit?”  
He blinks.  
“On the bed,” she amends.  
He glares at her. “Yes. I know this.”  
“Right.” She wiggles her toes and shifts her weight, getting comfortable. “Speaking of sex- have we done it?”  
“You would remember, little one. I assure you.”  
His voice rumbles and she feels it again, the flash of heat low in her belly.  
“Oh, I’m certain I would,” she says, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “I mean for our cover story.”  
“Your uncle will be wanting to know?” he asks, sitting down to face her.  
“No, but women talk and for that matter-so do men. And things are different when you do and when you don’t. So, what’s the story? Do we or don’t we?”  
He considers her carefully for a moment. “We do.”  
“Alright then, when did we first do it?”  
“New Years.”  
“Alright, where?”  
“In bed.”  
She rolls her eyes. “Not really what I meant. But moving on, how about now? What’s it like?”  
The corners of his mouth twitch up. “It’s good.”  
“How often do we do it?”  
“Most nights.”  
“Am I satisfied?”  
“Always.”  
“How long does it last?”  
“A long time.”  
“Who gets the top?”  
“I do.”  
She peers intently at him. “That sounds like we’re making it up.”  
“You tell me then.”  
She closes her eyes and thinks for a minute. “First time. New Years-same night we got engaged. On the floor-didn’t make it to the bed. There was a lot of vodka involved and we don’t remember much.”  
He nods in agreement.  
“And I’ll give you most nights but let’s go with usually satisfied because sometimes you’re impatient and it’s over before it starts- _that’s just life Illya_ -and I fight you for the top.”  
“I change my mind. We are waiting.”  
**MFU**  
They leave the hotel at dusk. The heat of the day is gone and the air is soft and sweet. She takes his proffered arm and they set off at a slow stroll through the ancient streets.  
They push on through the deepening twilight until they come to a wide-open area by the side of a cathedral.  
“Ah,” he says. “Here we are.”  
They are at the top of a flight of steps that spills down the hillside like an ever-widening river. At the very base, a burbling fountain sends water arcing into the air. Brightly lit shops border the river of steps and the air is thick with the heady scent of flowers.  
“It’s lovely.”  
“It is.”  
They walk down arm in arm. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and smiles and she knows that he like she, is tempted to believe their lie.  
At the bottom of the Steps she peels away from him to investigate the fountain. This close, she can see that it is in fact a sinking ship, spitting water into the sky.  
**“Why don’t you tell me something about the steps Mr. Architect?”** she says, her voice breathy.  
She dips her fingers into the water of the fountain as she listens to him improvising wildly. He’s so delightfully ruffled that she’s contemplating kissing him just to see what he does when Solo pulls up on his Vespa and the moment evaporates.  
**“Evening Comrade.”**  
**“You’re not supposed to be here.”** Illya is stone faced but she can tell he’s seething.  
**“What’s going on?”** she asks.  
Solo keeps his gaze averted when he talks. **“Someone is trying to make sure your fiancé is really an architect and not someone who’s trained how to fight. A KGB agent, for example.”**  
Tiny tendrils of dread wrap around her heart. Illya not fight? Might as well ask him not to breath. He’ll lose it and then the mission will be over before it starts. I’ll have a one-way ticket back behind the wall. **“I think you should do as he says,”** she intones in her most authoritative voice.  
Illya gives a tiny shrug and she can tell he’s resigned.  
Unfortunately, Solo can’t resist one last jab. **“Remember to take it like a pussy.”**  
**“This is not the Russian way,” Illya grumbles. He catches her elbow and directs her away down Via Condotti.**  
**MFU**  
Skirting the shadows of the Coliseum, they enter the Forum. She keeps a loose hold on his elbow and walks just behind him, picking her way carefully over the uneven terrain. The stones are worn slippery smooth by the parade of feet over the millennia. Jagged ruins cast inky shadows on the ground.  
They haven’t gone far when she spots them- the two men from the hotel lobby, just as Illya had said. The one in a brown suit leans against a column. The other, wearing a leather jacket perches on a low wall. In unison, they leave their roosts and circle like jackals.  
**“Nice watch,”** croons Brown Suit.  
Illya is motionless beside her, a hulking pillar of quiet wrath.  
**“Darling. Give him the watch.”** _Play along Illya, or we fail._  
**“And the ring,”** says Brown Suit.  
**“Hmmp!”** When she hands over her engagement ring the look in Illya’s eyes - a mix of fury and betrayal-unnerves her. His left index finger taps against his thigh in a most disconcerting way.  
**“Give me the watch!”** demands Brown Suit.  
Leather Jacket and Brown Suit slap him in turns and she can tell it’s taking everything he has not to fight back. His hands shake with pent-up fury when he hands over his watch. Thankfully, the two jackals mistake the shaking for fear.  
For one fleeting moment she thinks it’s over, that they’ve succeeded in passing him off as her architect fiancé. Then Brown Suit has the gall to spit at him. Without looking, Illya strikes out, thumping Brown Suit solidly on his Adam’s apple. Brown Suit gasps, and crumples to the ground clutching his throat.  
Then Leather Jacket pulls a gun and she throws herself at Illya. Seizing his arms, she leans into him with all her weight. He’s positively vibrating with rage.  
Leather Jacket laughs and runs off.  
Illya’s still pulsating with anger when Solo comes striding out of the darkness, all cool and casual.  
**“Calm down!”** she implores and to her amazement she feels some of the tension fade from his body. Satisfied he won’t cause any immediate chaos, she steps back.  
Then Solo proceeds to provoke him into a verbal pissing match. **“So you’ve actually thought this through?”** he taunts.  
**“Do you want to finish what we started?”** Illya growls.  
**“Enough! You two are suppose to be protecting me. So why am I playing mother, hm?”**  
They both gape at her, momentarily stunned into silence.  
She pivots on her heel and stalks off into the night. She’s teetering atop a particularly slippery step when Illya catches up to her.  
“Gaby.” He seizes her shoulders. “Wait.”  
“I’m not _leaving._ I’m going back to our room.” She twists, trying to wrench free. The rock underfoot wobbles and she slips backwards. He catches her and sets her lightly back on her feet.  
Over his shoulder she sees Solo emerge from the shadows and begin to move stealthily towards them. One look from her and he halts in his tracks; raising his hands in mock surrender he recedes into the darkness.  
“Illya,” she says gently. “Let me go.”  
Illya looks astonished to find he’s holding her. His blue eyes meet her brown ones. “Did I hurt you?” he asks softly, releasing his grip.  
“No, but you’ve got to learn to control your temper.” She slings an arm around his waist and leans into him, steering them both back into the light of the street.


	4. Spies in Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya may be bigger, stronger and faster, but Gaby's the one with all the power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there! It's been a while. (What can I say? Sometimes Death's a right bastard.) This chapter proved trickier to write than I had anticipated (or perhaps it's just life). Regardless, I hope I've managed to convey my take on the scene. In my head cannon, I think Gaby's very much aware of the power she has over Illya and she's very much a "live for today," sort of person. I think when it comes to sex she's very much the hunter. By contrast, I think Illya enjoys being hunted and is reticent to blur the lines between work/pleasure.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this next chapter. As always, dialogue in **BOLD** is from the movie.

**June 28, 1963**  
 **Late Night,**  
 **Continued.**  
They haven’t gone a hundred feet when Illya extricates himself from her grasp and offers her the crook of his arm. She hesitates for a heartbeat before curling her fingers around it and they set off at a brisk pace through the lamp-lit streets. His stride is long and determined and her heels clatter on the pavement as she scurries to keep up.  
“Slow down Illya!” she says.  
He glances down at her and his expression softens. “Sorry,” he mutters, slowing his pace.   
“That’s better,” she says readjusting her grip on his arm.   
They continue at a slow stroll through the deep velvet night. Beside her, Illya watches the shadows from the corner of his eye, on alert for more threats.   
As if on cue a gaggle of men calls out to them from across the street. One points at her and pumps his hips. Another wolf whistles and makes a hand gesture that transcends any language. The others laugh raucously, slapping each other on the back. Their words are foreign to her but the meaning is clear _Hey baby, how about it?_  
Illya’s heels grind into the pavement. Jaw clenched, his fingers begin to tap out their deadly tattoo.   
“Ignore them!” Gaby hisses.   
She leans into him trying to prod him forward but he is rooted to the spot, as immovable as the Wall.   
“That’s it,” she says, turning sharply on her heel. “I warned you! I’m gone.”   
In a flash his large hand curls around her slender wrist.  
“No.”   
Looking mutinous she twists and turns trying to break free as laughter rolls in gales from across the street.   
“You’re hurting me Illya,” she lies. “Let me go.”   
“I will,” he says, with the air of explaining something to a very young child. “But if you run, I will catch you, and I will carry you back over my shoulder. Do you understand?”  
Scowling, she nods. Illya unfurls his fingers slowly: a test she thinks, to see if she will run. She’s sorely tempted, but she has no desire to be paraded through the streets of Rome with her ass in the air.  
When they get back to their room she’s in a slather. She slams the door behind them and throws the bolt. Hands on her hips she turns to him. “What is wrong with you?”   
“If I did not fight would be suspicious.”   
“Right,” she snaps. _“Russian.”_ She closes the distance between them in a step and tips her head back to meet his glare. “Tell me, does the KGB encourage you to lose control?”  
 _“Gaby,”_ he says roughly, “Enough.” He slides past her into the bedroom and she follows, hot on his heels.  
Stone-faced, he lays his suit jacket over the foot of the bed then unknots his tie and tucks it into the pocket. He rolls up his sleeves and his eyes cut to his bare wrist.   
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. “I didn’t know. Illya-”  
Giving no indication that he’s heard her he turns his attention to the black suitcase set on a stand at the foot of his bed. He slides his fingers along the clasps and it opens with a click. He lifts the folded clothes gently to the side and extracts a dark wooden box.   
_It’s a chess set,_ she thinks, _how very Russian._ Impulsively she reaches out to trace her fingers over the time worn wood. “Was this his too?” she asks softly.   
Face blank; he jerks it back from her grasp and strides past her into the sitting room. He settles down into the armchair and proceeds to set up the game.   
Hands on her hips she stands staring daggers into the back of his head. _What is wrong with me? Forty-eight hours ago I was running from you and now I want to run to you._ She kicks her shoes off and shrugs out of her coat and dress. She stands, feeling the cool of the evening air against her heated skin. _An East German Girl and a Russian? It’s crazy. We’ve got no future together._ She heaves a sigh and pulls on her pajamas. _Since when did I start thinking about men in terms of the future? Since I met him. Damn._  
 **MFU**  
In the sitting room she settles down on the divan. Illya is inclined towards the chessboard, the picture of quiet contemplation.  
“Want a partner?” she asks. “I’m not half bad.”  
His blue eyes meet her brown ones and she feels a sudden stab of arousal. She considers knocking over his chessboard and climbing into his lap, but she’ll probably end up with the rook he’s holding crammed someplace direly uncomfortable.  
“No. Thank you.”  
“Suit yourself,” she says, fighting back the urge to reach out and trace his scar. _Show me yours and I’ll show you mine. I know you have them. How could you not?_  
The shrill of the phone pierces the air and she blinks herself back to reality. It’s Uncle Rudi. They talk as if no time at all has passed, and then he says, _Tell me; how are you finding Rome?_  
 _It’s wonderful Uncle,_ she replies. _We’re having a wonderful time-except-”_  
 _Except what?_  
She tells him of the events in the Forum and he rasps _Mein Gott! Gaby, Did they harm you in any way?_   
She glances over at Illya and she can’t resist the opportunity to sell their cover and take a retaliatory stab at him in one fell swoop.   
**“Honestly Uncle Rudi. We’re all good,”** she says, splashing vodka into glasses. **“Illya is a little shaken. He’s never been in a fight.”**  
Illya looks up at her, blinks, and returns to his game.  
Uncle Rudi laughs low in his throat. “Well then my dear, I will let you go and tend to your fiancé. I will see you tomorrow.”  
Grabbing the vodka bottle and both glasses she pads over to Illya. She holds out a glass to him as she knocks back the contents of the other in one blistering swallow.   
“No. Thank You,” he says, his face expressionless.  
Biting back a comment about Russians and vodka, she plunks down hard on the divan. She gulps down the fiery contents of his untouched glass and the world starts to blur at the edges.   
“Would you like bigger glass?”   
“I will finish this bottle,” she says unscrewing the cap to pour another round. “The only question is, are you going to help me or not?”   
**“No. Thank You.”** He flicks her a dispassionate glance and returns his attention to the game.   
**“This is fun.”** She takes another swig of vodka and swallows slowly, feeling it burn as she leans back. _This is a first, I’ve been set aside for a game of chess._  
Oblivious to her thoughts, Illya advances his knight.  
She harrumphs and storms off into the bedroom, vodka bottle in hand. _Do you not feel it too Illya? Or is sex never an impulse to you? Is it planned and plotted as carefully as a mission?_ She sets her glass on the vanity and refills it, sloshing a bit as she does. _Yes. I suppose that’s it. The only time you’re ever impulsive is when you’re angry._ She takes another blistering gulp of vodka. _Well then, I’ll just have to make you angry._  
She clicks on the little plastic radio atop her vanity and cranks the volume up until the sound fills the room. She settles her sunglasses on to the bridge of her nose and, vodka in hand, pushes out into the room to dance. As the music seeps into her bones she sways and pivots feeling delightfully carefree and light. _When your baby leaves you all alone..._  
Then Illya is towering above her. **“Please turn this off I’m going to bed.”**  
She can’t help but smile at his pained look. He’s teetering on the brink of self-control and it’s not going to take too much to send him over the edge.   
He makes to push past her but she blocks his every step easily until exasperated, he comes to a standstill and glowers down at her shifting form. She halts and cranes her head back to give him a coy smile.   
**“No fun dancing by yourself,”** she says, settling her sunglasses on top of her head. **“I need a partner.”**   
**“No.”** His eyes are narrowed and there’s a hard edge to his voice.   
**“No as in you can’t dance?”** she says, her voice like velvet. **“Or you don’t want to?”**  
The corners of his mouth twitch up and he nearly smiles. **“We’ll call it both.”**  
She feels a Cheshire cat grin spread across her face as she takes his large, warm hands in hers and pulls him in to a shuffling semblance of a dance. He’s like a teenager, she thinks, trying to dance with a girl for the first time. He’s almost shy and he moves without his usual ease and when she claps his hands together he actually grins at her.   
It annoys her.   
She wants more than grins and shuffling feet. She wants to burn brightly with him with the little time they have. She wants to make him writhe and pant while she sucks her brand into his flesh: to feel his hands on her hips as she grinds down onto him, ruining him so that when he’s far away and under someone else he’ll think only of her.   
So she slaps him.   
He stiffens and glares at her, his blue eyes stormy. She makes gentle shushing sounds and does her best to look demure. His brief spark of outrage dies, and he smiles at her once more.  
She slaps him again. Harder-because he’s bigger and stronger and faster, but she’s the one with all the power.   
He recoils with an infuriated scowl. **“You’re not in East German chop shop any more!”**  
 **“Still no drink?”** she says coolly.  
Blue eyes flashing, he levels a finger at her. Voice like gravel, he grinds out, **“Don’t make me put you over my knee.”**  
 _Like I’d mind._ **“So you don’t want to drink,”** she says, tossing her sunglasses onto the bed. **“But you do want to wrestle.”**  
 **“No I did not say this.”** Confusion flickers across Illya’s face just as Gaby launches herself at him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she catches him in the stomach with her shoulder. He lets out a grunt as they careen backwards into the siting room and topple over the arm of the divan. Tightening her grip on his waist she twists, carrying him with her to the floor. A thrill zings through her body as he lands on her. He’s all hard planes and lean muscle. This close, he smells like want.   
She’s vaguely aware of the chaos they’re creating as they roll in a heated tangle across the room. His breath comes in grunting gasps that send jolts of pleasure through her. Pressed up against him she can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he’s digging into her hip in away that makes her stomach go hollow and her head spin. Suddenly, he freezes and slides out from under her. Propped up on his elbows he eyes her warily. _Is not good idea._  
 _Doesn’t have to be,_ she thinks.  
Seizing his shoulders she pounces and knocks him flat onto his back to straddle his chest. His large hands wrap tightly around her forearms. His hips lift fruitlessly into the air and when she leans into him the look he gives her is pure desire. Then he swallows-hard, and his whole body goes still.   
Releasing her grip on his shoulders she lowers herself to him. Forearms braced against the floor; her breasts skim his chest and can feel his breath hitch. His large, warm hands slide up her arms and then down her torso to curve possessively around her hips.   
Suddenly her eyelids are too heavy to open and her body feels like it’s been weighted with lead. She collapses against him, his blonde stubble scratching her cheek. Then she’s being lifted and carried like a rag doll, her head lolling against his shoulder. Suddenly the bed is under her back and the covers are drawn up. **“Good night, little chop shop girl.”**  
She tries to say _Stay with me;_ but the words die on her tongue as she slides into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and as well to all who have reviewed and left Kudos. Let me know what you think. You don't have to be a wordsmith, just kind and polite.   
> Cheers,  
> ~H.W.


	5. A Blue Eyed Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Damn it Illya, you’re not supposed to be able to do this to me. I’m not supposed to care about you, and you’re not supposed to care about me._
> 
> Chapter 5: In which Illya blows their cover and we start to see just what Gaby's made of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer:Disclaimed in Chapter One. If it's in **Bold** it's dialogue from the movie.
> 
> I've always liked that Gaby has her own story line in this movie and isn't just arm candy. I've loved that the character is able to outwit both Solo and Illya. She's bright and clever and as Illya says, a strong woman. She is immensely fun to write.

**June 29th 1963**  
**The Plaza Hotel, Rome**  
**Mid-Morning**  
The shrill of the phone is like a cannon blast and immediately Gaby’s head starts to throb. She fumbles with the receiver and presses it to her ear. “Hallo?”  
“I was starting to get worried,” Illya says in a low rumble. “Thought I might have to come shake you awake.”  
“What do you want?”  
“Meet me outside in thirty minutes.”  
“An hour,” she counters.  
“I know you can do it in ten,” he says, “So, thirty minutes, or I come get you ready myself.”  
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  
In response, he hangs up.  
She swings her legs out of bed and leans forward, cradling her head in her hands as the events of last evening blur through her mind. _Who would have thought? When it comes to sex Illya prefers to be the hunted, not the hunter. I hope he knows how to use that blunt force object he’s got in his pants. He certainly knows how to use his hands. Wait a minute. How does he know how long it takes me to get ready? Unless_ \- She sits bolt upright. _Oh! That bastard!_  
The phone shrills again. She snatches up the receiver. “How long have you been spying on me? Watching me get dressed?”  
“I believe the answer is six months. Give or take a year,” says Waverly in his impeccable British accent.  
“Unbelievable.”  
Waverly continues undeterred. “Our Russian friend has just finished procuring you an engagement ring-one that also serves as a transmitter and radio tracker.”  
“Well, he certainly knows how to please women, now doesn’t he?”  
“I shall defer to you as the authority on that matter,” says Waverly. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Time is of the essence as they have almost certainly have enriched the uranium. You need to procure a meeting with your father as soon as possible. Alert me when you have done so. I am here in the hotel. Room 304.”  
“What makes you think I can do this?”  
“Because you have good instincts, you trust yourself and you’re calm under pressure. In short; all the makings of a good agent.”  
“And if I fail?”  
“Besides the Nazis getting an atomic bomb? My superiors will most definitely want to send you back behind the wall. So please, try not to muck it up. I’m rather fond of you and I have high hopes for your future.”  
He hangs up with a click.  
Head pounding wildly, she heaves herself to her feet and stumbles into the bathroom. The tile is cold underfoot and her footsteps echo off the marble walls. She catches her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her mascara and eyeliner have smudged so that her eyes look like two black blocks and her hair sticks out at all angles. _All things considered, still one of my better dates._  
**MFU**  
Twenty-three minutes later she pushes through the front door of the hotel. The sun hits her like a sledgehammer as she steps onto the street.  
**“Good morning,”** Illya says. Arms crossed loosely in front of his body, he looks entirely too pleased with himself. **“I enjoyed last night. It is better if we get to know each other a little more…intimately.”**  
**“What does that mean?”**  
**“Means I like my women strong.”**  
Smiling impishly he extends both of his closed fists palms down and gives them a little shake. **“Come on. Maybe I get you something.”**  
She taps his left fist with her sunglasses. Palm up, his long fingers unfurl. It’s empty. He grins at her, and she suppresses the urge to kick him in the shin.  
He uncurls his right fist. In his massive palm is a ring; a black pearl surrounded by tiny diamonds.  
**“Pump the brakes my Russian friend,”** she says, reaching past him to open the car door. **“I’m my own woman.”** _And I don’t want you or anyone else tracking me._  
Illya lifts her hand gently from the handle and slides the ring onto her finger. **“There. Now we are engaged. Again.”** He reaches past her and pulls the car door open. **“After you, fiancée.”**  
**MFU**  
The Vinceguerra’s party is glitteringly effervescent, the likes of which she has never experienced. Men in bespoke suits mingle with heavily jeweled women. The air is a miasma of perfume and cologne; and above the hum of conversation the drone of racing engines fills the air.  
She and Illya stand with Uncle Rudi at the edge of the marquis in front of a little table laden with champagne and caviar. Uncle Rudi hands Gaby a champagne flute, and turns towards Illya.  
“So tell me, how did you get my Gaby out of East Berlin?”  
Illya lowers his camera. “She is my fiancée,” he says, “As such, she is free to travel with me.”  
Uncle Rudi chokes theatrically on his champagne. “Free? No East German girl is free. Least of all when she is at the mercy of a Russian.”  
Illya looks at Gaby tenderly and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “I think perhaps you have it the other way around.”  
“You’re not going to change my mind, Uncle,” she says firmly. “I’m marrying him. That’s final.”  
“You’re too much like your mother,” Uncle Rudi replies, not unkindly. **“So tell me, how does a Russian architect meet a German car mechanic in East Berlin?”**  
They launch into the story of Illya rear-ending a tank, and to Gaby’s relief it sounds natural and unrehearsed.  
Uncle Rudi peers at them quizzically. **“And when did this happy accident occur?”**  
**“Two years ago,** ” she says.  
**“Two years ago? And you never wrote your uncle? You were ashamed perhaps?”**  
**“Why would she be ashamed?”** The fury in Illya’s voice is barely contained and she splays her hand on his chest in a furtive plea to behave.  
Uncle Rudi’s response is slow and deliberate. **“A good German girl knows never to mix the blood of a race horse with that of a cart horse.”**  
“Excuse me,” Illya growls.  
Gaby watches his back as he disappears into the crowd with a mingled sense of relief and dread.  
Uncle Rudi turns to her. **“I’m sorry my dear.”**  
_Right. And I’m a nun._ **“There’s a way you could make it up to me.”**  
“Oh?”  
“I want my father to be there when I get married.”  
“To a Russian? Gaby; after what happened to your mother?”  
“Yes, to a Russian,” she interjects.  
Uncle Rudi gives her a look of pure disappointment. “Let’s take a look at the racetrack, shall we?”  
“Don’t think you can distract me with cars. I’m not a child anymore.”  
“No,” he says, “Now you’re a mechanic. Come.”  
She matches his pace easily. “It’s only a private ceremony. I’m not asking him to make a public appearance.” _Tell me where he is. I am not going back behind the Wall! Also, the idea of Nazis with an A-bomb frightens me._  
Uncle Rudi comes to a halt at the edge of the racetrack. **“I feel for you,** ” he says. **“But I cannot help you.”**  
Gaby opens her mouth to object but the arrival of Victoria and Solo make her swallow her protest. Soon after Waverly joins their group and they all chat convivially until, eyes twinkling, Waverly says, “Ah, so you are the niece who has just been engaged?”  
She gives a little laugh. “I am.”  
“And when is this joyous occasion set to take place?”  
“As soon as possible,” she says. “I don’t want anything elaborate. I just want to get married.”  
Solo quirks an eyebrow at her. “Have you given any thought to where you’ll go on honeymoon?”  
“I’m not sure Russians believe in such decadent things,” says Uncle Rudi scathingly. “Remind me again, will you be staying in East Germany after the wedding? Or moving back to Mother Russia?”  
She’s saved from answering by the arrival of Alexander Vinceguerra. He screeches into the pit in a storm of testosterone and proceeds to berate his mechanic for his own lack of performance.  
Gaby can’t help but offer a few suggestions on tweaking the engine and when the mechanic challenges her to fix it she seizes the opportunity to get Alexander’s complete attention.  
Alexander watches her work with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s convinced of his own desirability. She can feel his gaze burn her skin as she bends over the engine. When she finishes, Alexander makes one more lap around the track then pulls into the pit again. He hops out, sets his helmet down and says, “Come. Let us talk. I have a proposition for you. A job.”  
_Good, because if Illya has blown his cover you’re my backup plan._  
She follows him into a patch of sun a little ways from the group.  
“Yes?”  
“I think we were fated to meet today.”  
“Oh?”  
**“I believe each of us has a destiny.”**  
**“You can see the future?”**  
**“I can see us, having lunch. Alone.”**  
_And by alone you mean naked._ She’s formulating a suitable response when Illya appears at her side and tries to tug her away.  
**“Darling. Time to go.”**  
**“Darling. I’ll be just a minute.”** _Jealous, are we?_  
**“Time to go,”** he says, **“Now.”**  
There’s plaintive urgency in his voice that makes her drop her objections and follow him away. _Oh Illya, what have you done?_  
**MFU**  
“You’re jealous,” she says as the get back to the room.  
Illya narrows his eyes at her and does his best to look menacing. “Me? Jealous? Never!”  
He ignores her laugh and marches off into the bathroom. The door locks behind him with an audible click.  
She settles onto the divan, toes off her shoes and kicks her feet up onto the coffee table. _Now here’s the question Illya, are you jealous for show, or are you actually jealous? That I just can’t figure out._ She reaches for the paper and sits back to read, content for the moment to simply enjoying being in Rome.  
An hour later, Solo arrives and proceeds to make it painfully clear that if Illya hasn’t compromised them yet, it’ll be a miracle.  
**“How did you find Alexander?”** Solo asks her. **“Your new boyfriend is a Nazi!”** Illya calls from behind the heavy wooden door.  
**“I quite like him,”** she says slyly. _Oh Illya, I think you’re actually jealous._  
Solo pours himself a drink. **“Yes, but is he up to no good?”**  
**“If by no good do you mean is he trying to steal me away from my fiancé?”** She folds down the top of her paper and grins at Solo. **“The answer is yes.”**  
**“That’s not happening!”** Illya shouts.  
**“I don’t know what you’re upset about you’re not even my fiancé!”**  
The door to the bathroom crashes open and Illya stands in the archway like Vesuvius ready to erupt. **“As far as he is concerned I am. And for the purpose of the mission I am. So, like I said. It’s not happening.”**  
Gaby shoots Solo a look of incredulity over the top of her paper. He catches her eye and shakes his head in exasperation.  
If Illya has noticed this he doesn’t show it. He exits the bathroom and strides over to Solo brandishing his newly developed photos. **“Look at this. They’ve succeeded in enriching the uranium. We need to move quicker.”**  
Solo considers the photographs for a long moment before thrusting them back at Illya. **“Tell you what. I’m gonna go sleep on this.”**  
Illya blinks once in disbelief as Solo makes a hasty retreat from their room. Then he stalks back to the bathroom pulling the door shut behind him.  
Gaby follows hot on his heels and wrenches it open. He’s turned it into a darkroom lit by a small red lamp that casts a fiery glow on the room. She wrinkles her nose at the acrid smell as she studies the photographs hung on the drying line.  
She points at one of her uncle, Victoria and Alexander that’s covered in wavy lines. “If they’ve succeeded in enriching the uranium,” she asks, “does it not make sense for me to be friendly with Alexander? If my uncle won’t tell us where my father is I’m certain he will.”  
Illya drops the stop bath into the sink with a clatter. He draws himself up to his full height and towers over her. His voice booms. “As your fiancé I forbid you to have any contact with Alexander!”  
“Forbid me? Forbid me? Wake up Illya. It’s the 1960s. I can wear pants and drive cars and have sex with whomever I like. You cannot forbid me to do anything. And We. Are. Not. Engaged.” She punctuates each word with a sharp jab to his chest.  
“Gaby, enough,” he says sharply. “Do not push me.”  
“Or what? You’ll put me over your knee?”  
“Yes.”  
Hands on her hips she tips her head back to meet his gaze. “I’ve had a few boyfriends who were in to that sort of thing. One couldn’t get it-”  
“Is not what I mean,” he cuts in. “I have no such trouble.”  
She steps forward, closing the gap between them. “I noticed. I was drunk last night, not dead.”  
His hands curl around her shoulders and the heat of his grasp soaks through to her bones. “Gaby,” he says, “You are strong but not invincible. If you…if you pursue Alexander, he will not be kind. He will take from you and he will not give you the information you seek. I…I am asking you not to do this.”  
Suddenly there’s a lump in her throat. _Damn it Illya, you’re not supposed to be able to do this to me. I’m not supposed to care about you, and you’re not supposed to care about me._  
Drawing a shaky breath she nods. “I won’t.”  
He releases his grip on her shoulders. “Good.”  
**MFU**  
As dusk settles Gaby slides into the bathroom and immerses herself in a hot bath. She reaches for a bar of softly scented soap and works up lather. _Hard to believe it’s only been three nights since I left East Berlin. Three nights since I ran from Illya; three nights since I would have had Solo shoot him. And now? Now I want to run to him and tell him everything-and do everything! What is wrong with me?_  
Sometime later when the water has gone cold she pulls the tub stopper with her toes and steps out. She towels off and pulls on her pajamas. When she emerges from the bathroom she finds Illya dressed all in black and wearing his cap.  
“Are you going out?”  
“Da.”  
“Looking for uranium?”  
“Or Atom Bomb,” he says.  
”You were going to leave without telling me? Look, Illya, you don’t have to tell me where you’re going. I just want to know when.”  
“Oh,” he says, “Then, I go now.”  
“When will you be back?”  
“When I finish.”  
She closes the distance between them in two steps. Her brown eyes meet his blues ones. “You’re not used to this, are you? Saying goodbye to someone who will wait up for you?”  
His eyes go wide and he shakes his head.  
“Oh, Illya.” She flings her arms around him and presses her head to his chest. She can hear his heart beating, slow and steady. “Come back to me please.”  
He pulls her in tight and presses a ghost of a kiss to the top of her head. “Da, little one. I will.”  
And then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all have have read, reviewed and left kudos-all that good stuff. Let's just say there's been a lot of death in the immediate family this past year. I find that I write slower than I would like, but I am still going because hey, what a wonderful escape. 
> 
> I enjoyed this chapter in particular because it's where we really start to see just who Gaby really is. And, because she's off screen coming up soon, you can only imagine everything our feisty little mechanic is up to.
> 
> As always, if you would like to leave a review that would be lovely. I just ask that you please be kind.  
> ~H.W.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and if you left a review that would be lovely. Tell me what you think/like (or didn't for that matter, I'm a big girl) just please be nice!  
> ~H.W


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